What's happening? Mark is collaborating with soulful, funky temptress Fanny Franklin on getting a CD out there, there!, so you can download the love.

Love costs, my friends, sadly, these days. The project is on Kickstarter, however, so, really, all the love will cost you is a minimum of, say, $1. Say, $5. Say, $30. More if you have more.

But really love doesn't cost so much as work. Love works. It does. So if you don't have money, send love. Here's a thought, you could send both. Okay, I'll shut up. I'll end this with another line from the poem.

Monday, September 26, 2011

A quick howdy to tell you I have two poems inScythe, a poetry journal created by Joseph and Chenelle Milford, which, as the two explain on the journal's landing page, originated in the spirit and mission of The Joe Milford Poetry Show.

The Milfords are one of poetry's energy fields. They produce an online interview show, archive same and edit a literary journal. And raise kids. And write.

So thanks to them and I hope you enjoy "No Need for a Door" ("The lotus was a premise, floating / and so what") and "Look Now" ("Alas we live in the Age of Cupcakes. / Those who know the past are likely as those / who don't to forget to bake at 350° 'til /springy to touch. . .").

In case I haven't been self-serving enough, let me guide you to the archive of the The Joe Milford Poetry Show, wherein you will find, what?, yes!, my name!, Sarah Sarai, yes, an interview with Sarah Sarai. Oh joy!

Friday, September 23, 2011

My Peeps. I just saw this on the Parabola website. This poem is enough beautiful and enough true it must be shared with as many as possible.

All bodies are temples. We forget all bodies are homes. I don't know what liberties Coleman Barks took with the title or the translation in general, but I do know we are all guests to poetry.

And, "Every morning a new arrival."

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Here's a new rejection letter for two short stories. I found it painful and useless. While I understand the editor was being generous in writing me and that you, My Reader, probably think I'm crazy for being offended, please understand. I have never followed up on a letter like this and had a story accepted.

In other words, while this editor thinks he has his reasons for not selecting this specific submission, he simply doesn't like my writing and doesn't understand that. My experience tells me he is going to keep finding fault. Been there. And there. And there. No thanks.

His utter lack of specificity left me confused. Kind sir: don't like my writing. Fine. But if you don't (and this relates to fiction), give me at least one sentence or scene you'd make different.

Weird? I am posting the letter in full (but for redacted titles and names) in hopes of getting rid of some of the ick.

Dear Sarah,

We've decided to pass on ...... But I want to encourage you pretty strongly to submit again. Here's where what should be a fairly standard rejection letter becomes longer and oddly personal, but I think it's worth doing.

See, I myself wrote--and, to some extent, still write--stories like this. And for a number of years, I got rejection letters that said, in essence, "these stories are good, but they're too weird." I didn't want to get more normal. So I was determined to reverse the clauses in that sentence--you know, write until I got a letter that said "this story is weird, but too good to pass up." So it was a question of making the weirdness more accessible, without becoming less weird; to give someone a really compelling reason to keep reading despite the weirdness.

I can tell you now that there is an audience for that sort of thing. Not a very big one, but it's pretty dedicated--and I myself am in it. Of course, you can write however you wish--maybe the direction I've described is not at all interesting to you--but in any case, I'm interested in reading more from you, and I'd like to see where you go next.

Friday, September 9, 2011

I'm letting myself feel it this year. One moment I was thinking about my mother who'd died in August, the next moment I was in a new kind of numb.

It is strange, or not, but I watched the second tower fall on a television in a bar. I'd called an elderly friend on a routine check-in, she started screaming at me and I had the sense to go outside and pay attention. I don't have a television. During the next days and weeks I was thankful for the absence of repetitious terror, visually, at least.

The bar wasn't usually open so early. I don't think, I didn't track its timings and now it's under new ownership, and shiny and glossy so I don't have the luxury of sentimentality, another plus. Anyway. Anyway. Anyway.

. . .an excerpt from "Everywhere Woman Is Born Free,"* which I posted here in full, a few years ago. It's in my collection.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Earlier today I was googling sleep studies, trying to help a friend find a study which meets his peculiarities. Which reminded me that if I am going to sleep tonight I better say something or other about the rather unhappy young fellow who complained, yesterday, about BlazeVOX [books]. {Links at the end.}

I have two somethings to say. One is that Mr. Unhappy went public. That, to glorify his sense of great injustice, this young fellow who was so grievously treated by life as to get an MFA, have been an editor for a respected publication, be young, complained in a blog sure to attract attention. Because of its affiliations. And his blogging was somehow confused for thoughtful writing or journalism. So many people added their two cents which more often than not amounted to a hill of beans signifying a singular inability to think clearly or seek truth as if one were a missile bound for the heat of great soul, which one must be at all times if one to survive and remain beautiful and honest and dear. Transparency is one thing. Untempered and false transparency is an agenda.

Complaint two and final. He went after my publisher. I'm not personally affronted. I'm enough arrogant to believe in my work insofar as my work deserves its place, not that it is better than. I'm not threatened with the prospect no one will ever respect me again. My publisher, who selected my manuscript from a pile of a gazillion, is de facto, de jure, without doubt, my friend.
So the loyalty button was pressed.

Bonus round with many extra points for valor of a grand and petal-y blossoming nature. Geoffrey Gatza of BlazeVOX [books] does so much good for poetry. Has rescued manuscripts gone out of print (as by Anne Waldman, yes, Anne Waldman, ahem). Has given a chance to so many new though old poets (as in Sarah Sarai, yes, Sarah Sarai, ahem). He has made the world better, which is a cliche perhaps but cliches can be factual.

So bug off,

***
Reb Livingson speaks out at No Tell Books Supports BlazeVOX. She also provides a background and links.
Shanna Compton deconstructs vanity in its poisoned dartness at BlazeVOX hurled, at Oh vanity.